


A Source Of Distraction

by Britpacker



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1357417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite previous disappointments, the Cardinal still finds he needs it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Source Of Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this now as having read the synopsis for episode 10 it doesn’t look good for the Cardinal. I was kind of hoping he’d be promoted to run a war with Spain or something, but...

His messenger came in the morning; she appreciated that, his taking time to give her fair warning to prepare for his visits and only surprising her with sudden arrivals when the strain of indulging a petulant and immature monarch became too much for even his formidable spirit to bear. His agent was nothing if not discreet, his sober clothing unmarked by any badge of office, any hint of his master’s eminent rank. A longstanding member of the Cardinal’s household, bound by duty, respect, and possibly more than a touch of fear.

She revelled in the bustle that followed on his heels. Her servants – his in truth, she knew their first loyalty lay with the man who paid their wage: that they’d inform on her, kindly though she might be, without a second thought if she ever deceived him – scurried to her usual orders: spring flowers in the bedchamber; a light meal just in case he desired it; her new gown, the deep, dark green of the holly leaf trimmed with silver ribbon fetched and fitted; her maid summoned in the early afternoon to tease and twist her glossy dark hair into a glorious riot for his long, slim fingers to work through. 

The girl, selected by him of course, was dutiful and obedient, perhaps a little in awe. Aware, even if she would never breathe a word of it beyond the walls, of her lady’s special status as mistress to the most powerful man in the kingdom. 

It was, she supposed, his particular guarantee of their good behaviour that her staff all knew precisely the harm that power could do if they were to fall short of his exacting requirements. The house would be in a frantic whirl all day to ensure everything was set to his liking, and to her satisfaction by the time dusk descended there was only the wine left unopened, to be uncorked and drawn in his presence. 

She tried not to be troubled by his mistrust. There were many in France, absurd as it was to her, who would pay to see the King’s Scarlet Eminence removed by whatever means made themselves available. His caution was natural, if painful.

When the appointed hour came and went, she began to fret. The servants knew to disappear, leaving her to pace her light, airy bedchamber alone, peering one way then the other in the hope of seeing his carriage turn into the street. Had he been attacked? Her heart stuttered as it did every time before common sense reasserted itself. How often before had he been delayed by the vagaries of his vacillating master? 

If that was the case, she might hope to keep him to herself a little longer. Nothing soothed his headaches, he said, better than a full night’s oblivion in her arms. 

She was only too glad to be of use. The thought of him bearing the whole burden of France alone, slowly working himself to death, was more than she could bear, and she knew her stomach to be stronger than that of most bull-headed men. He would never have noticed her had she been another simpering broken reed.

When the coach clattered to a halt beneath her window it took all her self-control to stay demurely seated and not fly down the stairs to his arms. He disliked scenes, and even though her neighbours were respectable folk who knew when to turn their heads he was careful never to come in full daylight; always waiting concealed behind curtains until any idlers had been moved on by his guard. Still, someone had to open the door and it would never do for even the servants to see the Cardinal embracing his hostess. 

She smoothed down her skirt and ruffled her hair until a few sable ringlets fell forward over her shoulders. Her breath coming faster she waited, ears pricked for the reassuring thump of his boots on the old wooden stair.

*

He waited until her housekeeper had the door wide open before descending, shielded from prying eyes by a combination of carriage door and coachman. A nod to Claude was sufficient permission; the man had made himself comfortable with her maid Marie, the pretty daughter of a Richelieu retainer sent to Paris by a grateful father to serve at the Cardinal’s command. It was a double insurance that amused him, knowing Marie would tell her lover anything his master should know of her lady’s behaviour while Claude would keep his mouth shut about the destination of their evening journeys, knowing a wrong word would bring the wrath not merely of his employer but also of his devoted and exceptionally fruitful wife down upon his empty balding head.

Leaving the man to own devices he acknowledged the housekeeper, absently blessing her as she bent the knee. The irony of it never failed to amuse him; that this devout crone should seek the benediction of the Church from a man hurrying to his mistress’s bed. Nothing however could deflect him from that purpose too long.

His head pounded so fiercely he half expected it to explode any moment. His shoulders ached, every muscle in his back clenched tight. He preferred not to come to her from the palace, but sometimes.... sometimes, even the strongest spirit had to cry “Enough!”

He heard the floorboards creak above him and for an instant his stern demeanour softened. Impatient. Typical of her to behave as if the weeks since his last call had been years.  


The pleasant anticipation of how she would fawn and dote was all that had made tonight’s difficult conversation after dinner with the King endurable.

His steps quickened in time with his heart rate. No more wide-eyed country gentlewomen for him; he had made that mistake once before and the memory of Adele’s treason still had the power to sting. For years he’d thought it madness to take one of his creatures, a cold-hearted killer in an angel’s form, to his bed, but now it seemed beneficial that both sides should know from the outset where they stood. And, for better or worse, he believed this woman was wiser than to disappoint him.

*

She recognised the signs the moment he crossed the threshold; the way he held himself, so stiff and uncomfortable, the deep furrows across his broad brow. The single curl of steel grey hair out of place, dripping forward across his forehead. “Oh my love!” she sighed forcing herself to maintain a level pace as she crossed the room to lay her head on his shoulder. “How I’ve missed you! Please, come and sit with me. I’ll fetch us some wine. Did you dine with the King?”

“I did, and thank you, but no.” Her heart sank with disappointment, and the tiniest weight of fear. Did he not trust her? Was he not intending to stay? 

Something of her thoughts must have shown in her face, for he softened almost imperceptibly and extended his hands, raising her smaller, smoother ones to his mouth when she presented them. “Come and sit with me, my love. It’s been some time since I last saw you.”

“Too long.” She removed his voluminous cloak and tossed it onto the foot of her bed before obediently letting him lead her to the chair in the corner, nestling onto his knees when he sat with a weary sigh. “I worry when your duties keep you from me, Armand. I know how hard you drive yourself.”

“I must.” He would never criticise the King, not even to her. Not even with the warmth of her pliant body in his lap, slowly seeping to thaw the coldness he carried within. She looped a hand around the back of his neck, her fingertips working their way into the short, soft hair at his nape. “If I did not, the gallant Treville would have the King’s ear and you know he only speaks up in favour of the Queen or his own undisciplined rabble.”

“And where would France be under such a ministry?” She admired him all the more for it: his absolute dedication to their country, his unyielding resolve to see France achieve her glorious destiny despite the ingloriousness of her sovereign lord. That strength of purpose had first drawn her into his service, inspiring her loyalty long before his personal qualities – that charisma, that dry wit, those hawkishly handsome looks – had won her heart as well.

“I’d sooner not answer that, my dear.” He sounded almost amused and she snuggled closer, wriggling contentedly on his knees and scattering small kisses on his brow, his cheekbones, the high bridge of his nose. He sighed, noticeably relaxing into her attentions. “And I apologise; had time allowed I’d have summoned you to receive your reward in person for a business so elegantly despatched.”

She preened under his approval and his dark grey brows drew tight. “I trust your conscience has not been unduly disturbed?” he said, perfectly dry.  


“I’m not a monster, Armand,” she pointed out, though she doubted the same could be said of all his agents – the catlike brunet with her alabaster skin and pale green eyes, for instance, they worked together once and she had carefully avoided the woman since. The Cardinal’s harem, she called them in the privacy of her own head.

She couldn’t help but wonder, possessed by her demons on the endless lonely nights, whether she wasn’t the only member to offer him the more familiar services of the concubine.

She refused to dwell on it now, with his arm around her and his breath feathering lightly against her cheek. “I don’t enjoy sliding a dagger between a man’s ribs,” she said steadily, “but Dufort was a traitor to France. You knew it and the letters in his coat proved it. I have no qualms about disposing of our country’s enemies; I’d never have entered your service if I was squeamish about painful necessity.”

He nodded briefly, smoothing a thin hand through his neat beard. “You did well. His intrigues with Rome and Spain are the talk of the court and the King has ordered his business affairs to be wound up in the wake of his.... unfortunate death.”

“Unfortunate for him, perhaps.” It had taken an age to get the blood off her cloak; he advised his creatures to wear dark red for good reason and as she’d fled the scene she had offered a silent prayer of thanks for his foresight. He lifted both hands to her face, steadying her for his first proper, lingering kiss.

“You received your payment in full?” he asked, a little huskier when they broke apart. She smiled

“Of course, do you think your couriers would dare rob you?” She knew it amused him when she got pert, and when he was amused he was much more likely to kiss her again. “And its timing was impeccable. My seamstress was threatening to tear up this fine new gown if I delayed payment any longer.”

His expression darkened. A minimal change, as most of his were, but so close to him she felt the tension that rippled through his slender form. “If you need money, my dear….” 

“Now, Armand, allow me the privilege of paying _some_ bills myself,” she admonished, smoothing the furrows from his forehead with a perfectly manicured fingertip. “You may maintain my house and servants if you please, but I’d like to think I can at least dress myself by my efforts in France’s cause.”

He gave her a curt nod, secretly proud of that independent streak; she may be his mistress, but he’d be damned before he would think of her as his whore. “It would reflect poorly on me if you were to be cast into a debtor’s jail, Mademoiselle,” he drawled, absently twirling the silver ribbon which decorated her bodice around one finger.

“I’m not such a fool as to disgrace you or myself, Armand.” She pouted at the very idea, which brought the smile she had glimpsed hovering in his eyes all the way down onto his thin, sensually-formed lips. “And it’s a very fine gown. Don’t you like it?”

“Very much,” he affirmed as she pushed herself up and twirled, displaying herself for his delectation. His mouth dried out and he had to flick out his tongue around suddenly parched lips. “Take it off for me.”

She went warm all over at the low, throaty command. Her fingers, so confident on the hilt of a knife, struggled with the more mundane business of releasing her tiny buttons. She could probably blame the unnerving intensity of those narrow, heavy-lidded eyes following their every move, she decided, light-headed from the smouldering desire they contained.

Unusually – perhaps, she conceded, unwisely - she had never been afraid of him. She had no cause to be, priding herself on never being stupid enough to incur his displeasure, but when he looked at her that way, like a starving tomcat with its eye on a fledgling, she couldn’t deny the shiver that trickled down her spine.

The costly fabric caressed her like a lover’s hand before pooling at her feet. She stepped out of her slippers, wiggling her bare toes against its plush softness, still warm from contact with her skin. “Continue.”

There was no more trying task known to femininity, she reflected, than removing one’s corset unaided, but the way he licked his lips and shifted in his seat while she contorted herself in front of him made the effort worthwhile. “I don’t suppose you might…” she hinted, flipping one end of ribbon his way. 

His features tightened a touch when he stood, and she winced for him. On past experience she knew his back must be in spasms of agony for even a trace of discomfort to slip past that impassive, well-practised façade.

He eased the corset free, sparks of fire igniting under her skin where his blunt fingertips brushed, then sank back into his chair, his hands dangling over the arms. The smallest hint of a smirk played at one corner of his mouth and she couldn’t help but notice that his feet seemed to be placed a little wider apart than before. When he offered his arms she tumbled into them, nuzzling against the side of his neck and lapping like a kitten, the tang of salt sweat lifting off from his skin. She could feel his muscles relaxing, slowly but surely, proof of his pleasure in her continual attentions.

Her heart bean to soar with the hope he might stay after all. When time was short he never indulged her, lightly grazing his callused palms over her curves while she nibbled and licked at his neck or his ear. When he turned his head, letting her mouth connect unexpectedly with his, she knew for sure.

His beard scraped erotically against her cheek. “Undress me,” he whispered, limp under her hands when she hastened to obey. With his eyes half-closed, a faint smile on his kiss-bruised lips, he looked suddenly younger, less careworn and it brought happy tears to her eyes, the knowledge she could do such a small everyday thing for him. 

He lay back, letting her work him free of leather, fine linen and silk, arching his shoulders and shifting his hips at her guiding touch. When she slipped to her knees before him, working the high black boots from his feet, he even sighed.

That first involuntary reaction of the evening thrilled her to the core. Her lover was a fiercely controlled man: every small gasp had to be earned, and on the rare occasions she had made him cry out she experienced an exultation like no other. Inspired, she pressed her mouth to his well-shaped calf, keeping the suction gentle but persistent. No other would know, but he would carry her mark into Their Majesties’ presence in the morning.

Insistent hands plucked her shoulders and she rocked back onto her heels to admire him naked, all long, pale limbs and silvery hair, his burgeoning need for her making him fidget and writhe, hunkered low down in his seat. Realisation made her head spin every time it happened. He needed this; needed her.

It was nothing personal. She told herself the same thing whenever he trembled beneath her hands. There was nothing special about her; any other warm, willing woman would please him just as well. But tonight he was hers, and that was all she needed to know.

“Take me to bed, Armand,” she urged, smothering his hands with kisses. “Please my love, stay with me.”

He uncurled from the chair with the languid grace of a large cat, enfolding her in his embrace. His cloak slithered from the end of the bed as he threw back the covers, urging her down, and the springs squealed nosily, giving way beneath their joined weight when he subsided into her cloying hold. Her hands fluttered down his spine, their mouths clinging, tongues in a sensuous tangle. He couldn’t get enough of her, as if he needed to reclaim her every line and curve; to make them his own.

She raised no objection, matching the steady circling motion of his hips, her long legs wound high around his waist when he entered her. For the first time he broke the kiss, raising his head to fix her with a fiercely heated gaze.

“You’re mine, my love,” he hissed, gripping her chin in one hand. The soft flesh beneath his fingers burned; she was vaguely aware she’d be disguising a bruise in the morning if he didn’t let go soon but something in his demeanour prevented any protest. He was possessive, she accepted that. But she had never seen him as wildly so as this. 

“You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” If he wanted a prolonged conversation or some kind of rational exposition she thought, he should have asked before plunging his thick, hard length into her. The friction was making her giddy even though he held himself still as marble. She would have admired his extraordinary restraint, if it wasn’t coming very close to driving her insane.

“Say it.” He shifted slightly, shooting fire right through her core. “Say it!”

“I’m yours.” How could he ever doubt it?

“Mine.” His eyes closed; he jerked, hard and sharp, from the hip. She didn’t try to stop herself crying out his name. 

His reaction was instantaneous. A low growl rumbled from his throat and he began to thrust in earnest, claiming her with his body as he claimed her heart and soul long ago. 

Pleasure tightened like a coiling spring inside her and she screamed, swamped by the flood of her release. She rippled around him and just as her convulsions begin to ease she finally felt him stiffen, shudder and spill deep inside her.

It might have been forever, yet barely a moment passed before he rolled off to lie beside her, the harsh rasp of his ragged breathing the only sound audible over the erratic beat of her own heart. Careful to move slowly, still faintly dizzy, she raised her head to gaze at his shadowed face, fixing every feature into her memory for the lonely nights to come. “Please, Armand,” she murmured, brushing the lightest of kisses across his parted lips. “Stay. Let me wake tomorrow and see you beside me, just this once.”

“I imagine my coachman will be.... fully occupied with your maid.” Satisfaction enriched each smoky syllable with honey, his voice a caress all of its own against her sensitive skin. “It would be selfish for me to disturb him, don’t you think?”

“Unconscionably.” Of course he couldn’t admit he might actually want to stay. She dipped her head, letting her long hair fall forward to hide her knowing smile. He snaked an arm around her, tugging her close into the crook of his body and like a child’s rag doll she allowed herself to be manipulated. “Sleep well, my love.”

*

She woke as dawn lightened the sky to the colour of his hair, aware before her eyes opened of his palms skimming her flank; of the damp heat of his mouth at the tender join between neck and shoulder. “Armand,” she breathed, rolling to offer him a sleepy smile.

“It seems I’m selfish after all, my love” he rasped, his breath catching at the pressure of her belly against his swelling arousal. “I want you one more time before I go.”

Her heart thumped hard into the wall of her chest. She had to lick her lips and swallow, so dry did her mouth feel. “Don’t talk about leaving,” she begged him bringing her hands to his chest and splaying them, fingers stretched to tweak his sensitive nipples. “Not yet.”

“My love.” When he called her that in his smouldering, smoky tone she could almost believe he meant it, and she refused usually to be such a sentimental fool. He arched from the pillows, luxuriating in her attentions and she redoubled them, recognising the permission he so rarely granted to explore and pleasure him as she chose. She whispered his name between kisses – never his ecclesiastic rank, she made that mistake once in the early days and he had stayed away for weeks thereafter – barely daring to blink as she moved lower, committing to memory the way he writhed, the way he looked and felt beneath her hands. Fully clothed, he revelled in her petting. Naked between her fine linen sheets, he had never relinquished control before.

She was taken aback all the more when he pulled her onto himself, tangling his hands in her disordered hair to hold her still against his kiss. Her knees pressed hard against his hips, he shifted his hands, gently cupping the pert swell of her breasts, thumbs grazing lightly across the puckered nipples. “Armand?” she questioned, not quite believing what he seemed to be suggesting. 

“Yeesss!”

His hiss as she engulfed him within the humid depths of her body was all the permission any woman could need. She gripped his hands in hers, scattering them with kisses while she ground down on him, inner walls rippling around his throbbing length. His eyes went glassy, his jaw slack as his pleasure tightened its grip.

She was sure she’d never seen anything more beautiful. 

Then he came, hard and fast, the bliss of it sweeping years from his face and bringing her name, rough and raw, to his swollen lips. It was more than she could hope to bear and she followed him over the edge, tumbling into ecstasy and never, never wanting the fall to stop.

She helped him dress in silence after, wrapping herself in a fur-lined robe to watch from above when he stepped into his carriage without a backward glance. The curtain across the small window twitched as he settled and for a split second she caught his eye.

She couldn’t be sure, but she suspected he might have smiled.

Such a little thing, but as she crawled back between sheets that still held the warmth and the scent of him, it was enough.


End file.
